


it didn’t go how you said it would go

by todareistodo



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 02:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todareistodo/pseuds/todareistodo
Summary: "Trent." Jordan mumbles. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I've seen."Trent laughs humourlessly. "You and the 70 million other people in this country. And a few million outside of it."jordan has been and always will be there





	it didn’t go how you said it would go

**Author's Note:**

> oops had to repost sorry! 
> 
> anyway written before and in no relation to the sun article - just coincidence - and obviously fiction. it doesn’t really make a difference but set in a few years time!
> 
> (also i’m sorry if i’ve ignored anything i’m not on my tumblr at the moment!)

Trent picks up just as Jordan is expecting his call to go to voicemail. He never expected to get through so he sits dumbly on the line in silence for a few seconds, trying to collect his thoughts he'd spent ages mulling over. They're scattered to the far reaches of his brain. He clears his throat just for something to do.

"Yes?" Trent says finally, and his voice is needle sharp but Jordan can sense the strain underneath it.

"Trent." Jordan mumbles. He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I've seen."

Trent laughs humourlessly. "You and the 70 million other people in this country. And a few million outside of it."

Jordan winces. "I don't care, Trent. On any level - personal, professional. I'll stand by you. Fuck everyone else."

Trent scoffs and Jordan tries not to let it get to him. His natural reflex is to tell Trent off, let it ruffle his feathers, but this is no normal situation and it requires something a little different from natural reflex. He sighs, again, and cringes, because for once in his captaincy, and years of dealing with Trent, he's not quite sure what to say.

"D'you need anything?" He offers tentatively. "I can come round, get a takeaway. Watch one of your weird programmes."

"Black Mirror isn't weird, Jordan, you're just thick." Trent mutters, but there's no bite and he just sounds tired. "I'm okay. Thank you for performing your moral obligation, you can lay off now."

Jordan splutters a little, desperate for Trent to understand he means it, desperate for him to know that Jordan really doesn't care, never would or could care, but Trent just mumbles goodbye and hangs up. Jordan keeps the phone to his ear long enough to hear the beeps signifying the end of the call, before his head thumps against the back of his settee. Nothing happens for long moments. Jordan groans, rubbing a hand across his face, and unlocks his phone.

He has the articles open in Safari, tab for each one, and it’s morbid fascination, the sheer discomfort of it that spurs him to read through them again. The first, an article that garnered conspiracy theories across all of social media last week, is from The Sun, of course. The cover photo is a silhouette wearing an England shirt - regardless of club, it’s always England that’s mentioned first, always the national team thrown under the tabloids’ malicious scrutiny - title reading **ENGLAND ACE CAUGHT KISSING MAN**. It all spirals from there.

The details outlined in the article are loose, deliberately stirring interest and rumours; young English footballer, plays for the Premier League, known to have girlfriends in the past. It could have been any of them, any of them younger than Jordan anyway, and he hadn’t really paid it much notice. Good for them, he’d thought upon coming across it, but really scrolled by without granting it much attention because red tops aren’t worth it anyway.

The news broke yesterday. Jordan’s mouth gaped open as the headline popped on screen, **REVEALED** printed in black and in bold, and he really couldn’t believe it because The Sun get every scandalous football story but they never drop anything more than a few hints, and yet.

That’s what made Jordan angriest, he thinks. That of all the headlines passing through about the squad, rumours and scandals and accusations, that was the one they decided to run with. Jordan gets it, he gets being gay in football is unheard of, a taboo ignored by everyone who matters and those who want it to matter because they can’t see an out but it’s just so unlucky. It’s so unfair.

Jordan looks at the photos again. He tries to see them from the perspective of a drunken mistake, a laugh between mates, banter, but they’re real. Trent wouldn’t kiss anyone like that if he didn’t mean it; Trent isn’t the kind of person to give himself to someone so blatantly all in the name of a joke. He too sensible. He cares too much.

The man in the photos is tall, taller than Trent at the very least. There’s a few photos, press loitering around the Liverpool nightclubs in the early hours, and some are more incriminating than others. Trent’s hand held in the man’s grip could be pushed away as drunkenness; he needed someone to help him walk in a straight line, someone to stop him tripping over. The kiss to Trent’s cheek, caught as the man’s lips press against his cheekbones, could be open affection. The man’s palm gripping Trent’s jaw as they’re pushed so close together you can’t see a gap in between offers no other explanation than the obvious.

Jordan wonders how drunk Trent was to let this happen. Trent’s unerringly intelligent, perhaps the cleverest person Jordan knows, but maybe he was fed up or frustrated or he wanted it too much. Jordan’s chest hurts thinking about how the way football has been built means he’s not allowed that. He thinks he understands why Trent decided not to hide, just for once.

Jordan scrubs a hand into each eye, rough enough they start to sting. The house is dark and quiet, no lights to turn off because he never got up to turn them on in the first place, so it’s easy to walk to his bedroom and stare at the ceiling there instead.

“Oh, Trent.” Jordan mutters softly, surprised. Trent is already dressed in his training kit, strapping his boots on in the player’s lounge. He’s early and Jordan wonders if it’s by choice or requirement. “Hiya.”

Trent’s eyes are sore. Jordan can see how they’re puffy and his eyeballs are streaked red at the edges and his tear ducts are angry and swollen. His hands shake, but he reaches down to clasp Trent’s shoulder and he hopes Trent can’t feel the tremor.

“Get some eye drops, kid.” Jordan tells him quietly, squeezing, and Trent huffs.

“Thanks, Hendo.” He snaps, petulance bleeding from his edges. “Definitely the first thing on my list.”

Jordan chuckles, and very abruptly stops, because he doubts that’s what Trent wants to hear. He watches the closed-off hunch of Trent’s body, the way his slight frame curls in on itself. His undereyes look bruised, lack of sleep bullying at the skin.

“I’ll bring you some tomorrow.” He offers, knowing it’s worthless and it’s cowardly, but it’s what he’d do before and he thinks Trent will still want everything from before to be done now. Nothing needs to change, and so nothing will change, because Jordan will make sure of it.

Trent nods his head, sharp bite of a retort that would normally curl his tongue never coming. His eyelashes dampen even though he tries to hide it, pushing his chin towards his chest, hiding his face from view. Jordan wants to pull him into his body, squeeze everything he has so tight Trent can barely breathe, and definitely not cry, only feel Jordan’s heartbeat and recognise it for what it is.

He only squeezes Trent’s shoulder again, however. Jordan knows this will be walking a tightrope, a careful, tentative edging of what Trent will allow to comfort him, and what he deems too far, too pitying. He wants to say a lot of things, but he doesn’t know where to start, so he snaps his mouth closed and ruffles Trent’s hair, stalking off to the dressing room before a question he doesn’t want to air hangs between them.

Players have begun drifting in once Jordan is preparing himself to talk to Klopp. Nothing has changed in the atmosphere, laughter and playful ribbing loud and omnipresent as ever, and Jordan sighs, light bubble of relief easing the heaviness in his shoulders and the tightness working around his rib cage.

Klopp is drinking coffee, phone in hand and buzzing manically. He raises an eyebrow in greeting as Jordan moves towards him, watching him as he hurries his steps. He smiles, grins like always, nodding his head and Jordan nods his head back, breathing in deep, winding himself with the sharpness of it.

“Can you direct the press to me?” Jordan asks, blunter than he’d intended. “I know he can’t hide forever, but surely a statement will do, and the press can get sent to me?”

Klopp smiles, but Jordan can see from the dull sheen where his eyes usually glint that it’s strained. “I wish I could, Jordan, but unfortunately, it’s his battle to fight. His agent has released a statement and he created his own, today. After that, it is up to him.”

Jordan groans through his teeth. “He’s a kid. He’s so young. He doesn’t deserve this. They’re gonna rip him to shreds.”

Klopp grimaces in agreement, shrugging a little, and Jordan supposes he appreciates the honesty, but some reassurance wouldn’t go amiss; something realistic enough it doesn’t sound sugar-coated, kind enough to quell the frustration and uneasiness coiling in his gut that this time, it’s out of his control. This time he can’t take care of Trent. This time he has to go it alone.

“He’ll open the door for so many others.” Klopp reasons, draining the last of his coffee. “It wasn’t his choice, no, but he is still brave. He’ll survive it.”

Jordan laughs darkly, Klopp joining in with a good-natured clap to his shoulder.

“You can’t save him every time.” He reminds him, suckerpunch of truth a little too raw. Jordan swallows. “He has you to support him, still.”

Jordan nods vigorously, daring anyone to ever doubt that. Klopp laughs again, loud and hearty, leading them both towards the training pitch where the rest of the squad are trailing out. Trent hangs towards the back, swiping a finger under his eyes. Jordan goes to race after him, fall into step, but Joe has already dropped back. He nudges Trent’s shoulder, and when Trent looks up at him, his smile is wide and genuine. Jordan feels a surge of pride and gratitude and the tension laced through his stomach loosens a little.

"I'm proud of you." Jordan mutters into the shell of Trent's ear as they pass through the door after training. "Well done for coming in."

Trent smiles weakly, allows himself the briefest moment of vulnerability, carefully held edges fading away long enough to relax into the sure heat of Jordan's body, the warmth of the arm he slings across Trent's shoulders and the nose he nuzzles into that hard patch between ear and cheekbone. He laughs, quiet and unsure, pushing Jordan away and he doesn't say anything - Jordan doesn't think he's said a word since they first spoke this morning - but his breathing slows and his eyes don't look so hollow, just for a little bit.

Jordan doesn't turn the radio on as he leaves, terrified at what might fuzz into the air. He knows the last station he was on was TalkSport, and he has a feeling Trent will be the talking point for days to come - decades - so he hums to himself instead, leaving through the gates to Melwood. There's no press clamouring for photos or quotes, Jordan supposes Liverpool have that covered for now, and as he drives through Merseyside he can pretend that Trent's world hasn't fallen apart from the corners with a few fatal photos. He curses himself for being selfish, turning the radio on and clicking away as fast as possible, nondescript pop music thudding through the speakers as he prods at the volume until the entire car vibrates.

He makes it in time to pick his girls up from school, grinning as he listens to their playground escapades, promising he'll take a look at the fingerpainting when he doesn't have a road to concentrate on. They bounce impatiently, school dinner stained uniforms creased, when he unbuckles them and leads them into the pharmacy. The woman behind the counter is smiley and manages to convince the girls they desperately need one of the lollies advertised on the counter. Jordan pays for the eye-drops, strange undereye treatment and two lollipops and makes cottage pie when they get home, even though he can't eat it on his current diet, and he watches cartoons with his girls before he has to drop them home.

His phone rings as he's brushing his teeth for bed, buzzing the entire countertop. He slides the bar across without looking, speaking through a mouthful of toothpaste and brush.

"Alright?" He garbles.

"Huh?" Whoever is on the other end of the line hums.

Jordan spits his toothpaste out and repeats himself. "Alright?"

The caller - Adam, he realises - laughs. "Yeah, mate. You?"

Jordan makes some kind of affirmative, vaguely positive grunting sound and shrugs.

Adam laughs again. "I just wanted to check, because I can't get through to him and training was difficult, understandably, if Trent's okay?"

Jordan breathes in. "Yeah." He starts. He kneads his forehead, shuts the bathroom light. "As good as he can be, y'know? He's a strong kid. Smarter than any of the little bastards who've got it in for him."

Adam hums. Jordan lies on his back in bed, loud speaker on the bedside table as he fiddles with the telly opposite. He settles for some panel show rerun.

"Fucking brutal, innit?" Adam sighs. "Shambles."

Jordan understands how Adam can't explain it. He can't articulate it either, the backlash and attention and statements and abuse and lack of choice. Just a whirlwind of shit and of course it was going to happen sooner or later, everything reaches a tipping point, but Jordan just really, really wishes it wasn't Trent. He wishes he'd been given the luxury of choice, to decide for himself when and where. To still have that facet of control over something far more important than any man shouting at him from the stands could understand. His skin feels tight.

"Shitstorm, yep." Jordan agrees. "We've just gotta stick by him."

"Oh, of course, of course." Adam rushes to reassure him. "It'll work out, Hendo. Gonna give the barbecue a miss?"

Jordan smiles, laughs softly. "'Course not, mate. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

After Adam hangs up, Jordan feels a little bit lighter. He considers dropping Trent a text but he doesn't want to smother him, and if he can infer correctly, his phone's off anyway. He doesn't actually have anything to say other than affirmation but Trent is the kind of person to find polite tokens worthless. He decides against it, plugging his phone into charge instead and checking his alarms, flicking on do not disturb and determinedly not thinking about all the comments swirling in peoples' mouths.

“Okay, kid.” Jordan declares, stopping in front of Trent where he sits staring at his shoelaces in the canteen. “Eye drops for the redness, this weird eye rolly thing for the underneath.”

Trent looks up at him disbelievingly, down at the tubes held in each hand, back up again, down, and then he laughs incredulously. Jordan sits down in the chair next to him, all heavy weight, careful to check nobody is around. Trent doesn’t take very kindly to the prospect of humiliation, however mild and well-meaning it may be.

“I thought you were joking.” He says finally, voice quiet and hoarse from lack of use and another night crying, if the ever-worsening redness to his eyes is anything to go by.

Jordan shakes his head, tucking the tubes into the pocket of Trent’s fire engine red training shorts. He slides them in until they’re not visible, pats them, just to check, and offers Trent a beam. Trent rolls his eyes, and the glimmer of normal makes Jordan’s skin buzz excitedly. He ruffles Trent’s hair roughly, good-naturedly, laughing near delightedly when Trent shoves him away and pouts. The inside of his bottom lip is nicked tender pink, faintly bloody still, nip of Trent’s incisors on the skin. It makes something in Jordan's breath catch, his chest ache, but just a little, barely noticeable.

“Is your lip alright?” Jordan asks, jutting his chin towards him.

Trent eyes him warily. “Yeah? It’s fine? No need for more pharmacy trips, Hendo.”

Jordan grins, cheeks hurting with the stretch of it, because it’s the most he’s heard Trent say since it happened and he called him Hendo and he’s as bratty as always, and Jordan might complain and tell him off for it but he missed that part of Trent so much when it wasn’t there.

“A thank you would be nice.” Jordan teases, sitting across from Trent and stealing his half-finished cup of tea even though Trent drinks it so weak you’d barely know a tea bag had been used.

Trent shakes his head but he’s smiling, just faintly. He won’t say a thank you but Jordan isn’t expecting one or even wanting one, so that’s okay.

When Jordan sees Trent on the line-up for their game against Southampton, it takes Adam to tell him how fucking stupid it would be to demand Klopp doesn’t play him to stop him from marching up to him.

“He can’t give them the satisfaction.” Adam tells him quietly, voice slow and calm, soothing. Jordan didn’t realise he was vibrating slightly with anger, or nervous anticipation maybe. Something knotted that sits in the hollow of his stomach anyway. “He’s gotta carry on like normal, Jord.”

And Jordan knows Adam is right, and he knows Trent would likely never gift Jordan with a single word ever again if he stopped him from playing, but the echo of chanting and jeering, sound he can’t control, evidence that this exists somewhere outside of themselves, outside of Melwood, makes his toes curl in his boots.

He claps Trent’s head, pulling him roughly into his chest for a second before he pushes him away, as they run onto the pitch to a cacophony of noise that Jordan forces his ears to hear as static, buzz of black and white sound that means nothing, can’t slice through bone.

The adrenaline that thuds through his body, travels along his bloodstream and pounds in his ears, bleeds away as it always does. He hears it, the thousands of voices in time, in unison, goosebumps prickling across his skin at the sound; the unerring pride of Liverpool. Endless.

It’s under the current of chanting that it filters through. When Jordan edges too close to the sidelines, offers to take a throw-in, he hears the voices under the masses that sound louder than any of it. Words and phrases that make Jordan want to decorate their bodies black and blue, any of them, he’ll take anyone who dares to say anything like that to Trent, fucking anyone who thinks hurting that kid is okay-

Trent is shaking, Jordan realises belatedly as he trots unevenly to the corner flag, ball sliding against the material of his shirt as he rubs it. There’s a fine tremor running through his body, more and more unnoticeable the further away he walks, but it’s there in the jerk of the ball between his hands.

Trent closes his eyes and shakes his head, so hard and fast Jordan thinks it must ache, batter against his brain, press right up against his eyeballs. He wonders if he’s trying to calm himself, trying to shake the acid spewed at him and filling up his ears. He wonders if Trent is going to give up, if Jordan should make him give up to protect him. He’s shaking too, now, anger that ripples and grips, digs it’s claws in, the longer Trent sways at the corner flag, defeated.

“Trent!” He screeches, tearing out of his throat.

It takes a few seconds, long enough that Jordan decides Trent didn’t even hear him, merely looked for him because he needed to, needed something to ground him, and Jordan’s heart thumps a pattern in his throat because he can be the something.

He nods his head as vigorously as he can, encouraging as much as possible with the stretch of grass between them and thousands of other voices listening. He slows the movement of his head until it’s a mere firm jerk, controlled and commanding like this is any other corner in any other game in any other life, and Trent positions the ball and kicks.

“You’re just a demon on those corners, Trent.” Robbo shakes his head disbelievingly, arm slung around his shoulders. “Two goals from corners. Mad.”

Jordan watches fondly, willing himself not to interrupt. The buzzing in his ears has receded, thrum of anger under the skin dulled. His eyes blur across the stands, determined to ignore any of the banners and what they might say, as he follows Trent and Robbo through the tunnel after their well-earned victory.

Jordan thinks he might be getting soft in his age, softening with every digit added, but there’s nothing soft about the desperation he feels, his fierce overprotectiveness of Trent. Pride catches in his throat, pride for a boy he’s watched grow and learn and looked after for as long as he’s been looking up at Jordan through his eyelashes, eyebrows set, eyes hard and determined, on grassy pitches and astroturf.

“Your performance was incredible.” Jordan tells him when the locker room is emptying out, buzz of the win filtering out with them. “Well done for just dealing with it. Better than I could do.” Jordan allows himself a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Don’t be silly.” Trent rolls his eyes but his cheeks are flushed, stamped-down smile pleased. “People acting like I’m a hero. Didn’t have much choice, did I?”

Jordan smiles sadly. “No. Right dirty bastards, The Sun.”

Trent laughs and the sound is a slip of sunlight through a slit in the blinds. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He jokes, bitterness running through it.

"Wanna come round for a cuppa? Have a catch up." Jordan asks tentatively, as tentative as he can, anyway.

Trent tilts his head to the side. "I guess that's something I don't know." (Jordan mumbles _smartarse_ under his breath) but he shrugs, and Jordan takes that as success.

“Seriously, if you like Alicia Keys that much, broaden it out a bit. At least try out, like, Destiny's Child.”

Trent is eying Jordan’s car stereo contemptuously. His fingers are twitching against his thigh. Jordan knows he’s itching to change the song, turn down the volume. His hand stays by his side, fingers tip tapping an impatient rhythm.

“Good lad.” Jordan teases, gesturing towards Trent’s barely controlled fingertips like he will even know what he’s referring to.

Trent’s eyebrow raises in a neat arch and Jordan just beams at him, resting his forearm on the rolled down window, soaking up the sun that's still clutching on.

Trent slides the fingers of his other hand along the bottom of the window, back and forward. Jordan watches as he stares at Jordan’s chest and attempts to steady his breathing into sync, eyebrows drawn tightly together as he concentrates. Jordan laughs, sound tingly and ringing in the small space. Trent’s chest rises in time with his as he looks towards him questioningly and Jordan just shakes his head, grinning.

“You’re in a good mood.” Trent observes, tone just this side of accusatory.

“5-0 victory, love.” Jordan reminds him happily, tapping Trent's thigh with the tips of his fingers. Trent pauses the skitter of his own fingers across his leg to allow for it. “Just that winning feeling.”

Trent snorts, and then starts laughing for real. Jordan is too busy arranging his face into a beam that stretches his cheeks close to breaking point to notice how the sound settles on his skin, winding around. They turn to look at each other, Trent’s eyes still laughing, Jordan’s mouth still smiling, and chuckle quietly together.

“I’ve got those biscuits you like!” Jordan calls from the kitchen when he’s making their tea, Trent’s milky and pale, just as he likes it. He dumps a generous teaspoon of sugar into his from the container he keeps behind the kettle, out of sight so he can pretend to himself he never uses it, and listens to the soft creak of Trent’s footsteps across the lounge floor.

“Decent!” Trent calls back.

Jordan picks up a handful from the tin, shoves another two in his mouth, and balances everything carefully into the living room. Trent is smiling at a photo on the shelf by the window, above the magazine rack and beside the lamp with the deliberately visible lightbulb Jordan keeps forgetting to change. It’s a photo of the two of them, medal ribbon around necks, metal victory caught between their teeth. Their arms are tight around each other, bodies pressed together against every curve and edge. If you look closely, you can see the sweat still glistening across their skin, catching in the light.

“You’ve become right soft.” Trent teases, folding into the corner of the sofa, right leg at a right angle, foot pressed against the knee of his left.

“Cheeky bastard.” Jordan laughs, offering his tea and biscuits. “Don’t get crumbs on my bloody sofa.” He warns.

Trent purses his lips, nose wrinkling, crumbs already caught on the glisten of his lips. Jordan taps the corner of his own mouth and Trent pokes his tongue out to catch the crumb caught there on his.

“How’s your mum?” Jordan asks suddenly, cursing himself for his mouth barrelling forward before his brain wants it to.

Trent swallows his mouthful, coughs against the dryness. He shrugs. Brushes crumbs off his hoodie where they’ve settled in the creases (Jordan watches disapprovingly, wondering if it’s too soon, and therefore insensitive, to demand Trent hoovers them up himself). He shrugs again and plays with a loose thread in the stitching of Jordan’s sofa.

“She’s alright, y’know. Doesn’t like seeing what people are saying but she’s strong, innit. Thick-skinned.”

Trent’s voice changes when he talks about his family. Only minutely, a shadow of difference you couldn’t catch if you didn’t know to look in the first place, but Jordan hears. He hears that glimmer of pride and love so deep it’s never even been considered shaping the words. Trent loves his family so much he’s never stopped to realise he does, doesn't understand it as much as Jordan can see and knows.

“She is a strong woman, your mum.” Jordan agrees. “I believed every threat she made before Russia. Terrifying.”

Trent laughs, eyes bright. “It wasn’t a shock or anything, for them. They knew already. Never really a secret.”

Jordan nods his head slowly. He’s pleased, and frankly surprised, to realise he feels no itch of jealousy or irritation at being omitted from the information. He understands; snorts a painful spurt of hot tea through his sinuses imagining telling Stevie something like that. No, he definitely understands why Trent decided not to.

“I really am proud of how you’ve handled this, kid.” Jordan tells him earnestly. “It’ll be shit for a while and then it won’t be. That’s how life works.”

Trent nods, mouth curled in a sad smile. “Yeah.”

The first tear stains across the chest of Jordan’s t-shirt. He watches it spread, spiralling outwards as each tear after it joins. He rubs a hand up and down Trent’s arm, up and down, up and down, so fast and rough the friction must burn, faintly, but Trent is shaking against his body, shuddering as he sobs quietly, and Jordan doesn’t know quite what else to do.

The desperate gulp of Trent’s throat sits in his ears, t-shirt beginning to stick to his skin where the wetness is clinging. He’s whimpering quietly, fingers flexing against his leg and Jordan wants to curl them in his own t-shirt, but the sounds hiccuping from Trent’s throat batter against the lump in his own. He rubs his hand up and down faster.

“It’s okay.” Jordan promises. He says it over and over until it doesn’t sound like words, nothing more than jumbled sound but Trent is nodding his head against Jordan’s chest, choking a little around everything swimming through his system. “Everything’s always gonna be okay.”

The fight has been bled out of him, the snap and whip of his ready tongue surrendered. He’s so tired he’s limp in Jordan’s grip, so tired he doesn’t fight back against a statement all sugarcoated honey because of course it’s not okay, and Jordan can never promise an always. He’s so tired he just nods, pressing his face into Jordan’s chest where a snappy mouth and whining petulance would still accompany tears in the past.

“At least they didn’t make me do post-match interview.” Trent mumbles into his damp t-shirt, voice shaking.

Jordan laughs, circling his thumb across the line of Trent’s bicep. Trent laughs too, weakly, more a puff of hot breath that seems to sit on Jordan’s skin through the sheerness of his wet t-shirt. Slowly Trent's heaving sobs level out, wet hiccups replacing them and pressed into the space between Jordan's chest and arm. Jordan kisses his hairline, shushing him gently, stroking through his hair. Nothing is said and nothing moves.

"Wanna watch some telly?" Jordan asks carefully, fingering the buttons on the remote.

Trent shrugs and wriggles away, still pressed against him body to body. Jordan flicks through the channels, settling on some archive football footage, the Premier League 1998/1999, maybe. Jordan sees from the side of his eye the corners of Trent's mouth curling up in that sly smile he always tries to hide as they watch an 18-year-old Gerrard making his debut, unfortunate hairline and too-big Liverpool kit. Trent's eyes gleam. Jordan ruffles his hair fondly and breathes out an inaudible sigh of relief when Trent shoves him away irritated, smiling. His gaze skirts down to the wet patch marked into his t-shirt and the tiredness marked into his youth, smile burning something like _I wish_. He zones back in in time to watch Dion Dublin fire in a second to beat Arsenal.

"Well, my door's always open."

Trent nods his head, shrugging. The light is on in his front room. He's back at his parents'. "Yeah. Cheers, Hendo."

”Anytime." Jordan promises.

Trent nods his head jerkily, dithering between the car seat and his left leg already in his driveway before he slams the door shut.

Jordan has always loved Trent, he supposes. Not that he's really put much thought to it, but if someone were to ask if he did, he knows what the answer would be. It's the kind of love that doesn't really need to be shouted about.

It takes two weeks before Jordan risks TalkSport. He turns up the volume gradually, laughter and roughened male voices growing clearer and clearer until he's laughing along with their discussion on Neymar's latest comments. They don't mention Trent once, or Jordan, or Liverpool and he thinks he's okay with that. Things are smoothing out and Jordan always knew this change would make everything and nothing different. He thuds his head back against the head of his seat at the next red light, fuming with himself for his own selfishness yet again. There is no _nothing_ for Trent; this will always be an everything.

He's happier, though, Jordan can sense that. He's laughing again, the loud, open-mouthed giggles where Jordan can count every single one of his teeth and see right to the back of his throat. It crinkles his eyes, and they're not red anymore either. There's a dullness lined under them but it doesn't cast a shadow, and Jordan thinks maybe only he can notice it anyway. He jokes with Joe and Ben and Ox, lets Jordan headlock him with eye rolls dripping in insolence and he chats back with all the bite of the runt of the litter determined to survive. He makes Jordan smile again and he makes him angry and he makes him want to scream. It's all okay.

It's Jordan Trent is walking into Stamford Bridge with when a bald bloke with an unfortunate pair of eyebrows delivers a quickly spat out barrage of abuse that Jordan can barely pick through but what he does pick up makes his teeth grit. His fists clench and his legs are moving before his brain, cogs of his body working faster than his common sense.

"What did you fucking say?" He manages to hiss out, spittle escaping with it, but the ruckus the man is causing buries his anger under hundreds of voices, and Trent pulls him away, firm grip on his forearm.

"You can't fucking retaliate, Hendo." Trent tells him curtly, nostrils flaring, and he looks hurt, angry - at Jordan.

Jordan watches him stalk off to the dressing room, blanket of hushed silence cloaking the entire team. Jordan stands in the corridor, mouth working around words he can't even think of, body thrumming with the sharp need to do something, so confused his brain hurts trying to understand. It's only when the kitmen pass him with an odd look and some barely concealed whispers that he thinks to move.

The dressing room is thick and silent. Everyone shuffles around awkwardly, eye contact averted. Not even Adam looks up at his entry, and Jordan wants to screech. He tries to catch Trent's eye but he's lacing his boots violently, determinedly staring at the twine. Jordan chews on the edges of his tongue until his teeth start to shave it off, raw and bloody.

"Is someone gonna tell me what I've done?" He demands to the room at large. Ox offers him a shrug, which Jordan supposes he should appreciate.

"I don't need _you_ making things worse for me." Trent snaps when the silence fails to break.

Jordan isn't sure what to do. He straps his boots tighter than he means to and storms onto the pitch with a click in his jaw and his feet squeezed too tight.

The match is grisly and Jordan gets carded for a late tackle on Kovacic. Trent's hand trembles as he places it on the small of Jordan's back to calm him down, knowing he's tipping on the edge of explosion, breathing growing heavier and heavier, teeth gritting harder and harder. He wants to fucking batter something but he leans into the pressure of Trent's hand instead, for the merest second it's there before he sprints off into position, and takes it for the truce it is. Even if Jordan doesn't understand why there needs to be one in the first place.

Jordan can hear everything here. It's pressing down on him, bitterness that sears shouted to a tune, hatred spewed out like a description of their dinner. Jordan wants to fucking batter something _so badly_ it's itching under his fingernails and clawing up the walls of his insides, but he looks at Trent forcing himself onwards with a hardness to his eyes that's almost scary, and he breathes. He breathes, and breathes, and they win.

The dressing room echoes when they stumble back in. It sits on all their skin, this nauseating sense of wrongness they can do nothing about. It's silent and Jordan is still so angry he slams the shower door shut with so much force the entire frame rattles dangerously. The silence eats away at him.

"I'm not even gay." Trent announces suddenly.

Jordan doesn't think he can hear a single person breathe, before everyone starts roaring with laughter.

"What?!" He yelps indignantly, jumping out of his seat. "I'm not! I like girls too!"

Everyone just laughs harder, Jordan so hard tears start to slide down his cheeks. He loops an arm around Trent's neck, pulling him into himself, relief simmering in his stomach as Trent starts to shake in his hold with his own laughter. Jordan couldn't even explain it, what exactly is so funny, but everyone just keeps on laughing and it feels like something has been lifted, that ease of teammates returning with whoever first decided to laugh.

"I haven't seen that bloke since." Trent tells him.

They're sat together on the bus. Jordan isn't sure why Trent picked him over Joe or Rhian or Robbo but he felt something warm flutter through his stomach that he did. He's smiling quietly and he can't stop ruffling Trent's hair every few minutes.

Jordan hums. "Who?"

Trent smiles faintly, like Jordan is being stupid and Jordan can't even bring himself to mind. The bus is quiet and dark, overhead lighting dimmed to allow them to sleep. Shadows pass across Trent's face, highlighting sections before it passes. The shaft of light has settled across his eyes, eyelashes casting a dark pattern across his cheekbones. They're scarily white in the natural spotlight.

"Bloke in the photos." Trent explains exasperatedly, but Jordan can hear the anxiety coursing through it. "He never replied. After that."

Trent is resting his head against the window, far enough out of Jordan's reach to stop him playing with his hair. His eyes are silent and wide, waiting, and his mouth is slightly open, ready to retort or distract. Their thighs are pressing together and Jordan can feel the heat through their trackies, but it could very well be his imagination. He presses his leg closer into Trent's anyway.

"Well, he's a knob, then." Jordan says determinedly, laughing to himself as Trent rolls his eyes. "His loss, innit?" Trent sniggers, shaking his head.

"He wasn't worth your time, love, not if he done that. Wasn't worth you."

Trent visibly bristles, mouth opening and closing with unspoken replies. Jordan smiles, pleased with himself for rendering him speechless. Trent eventually settles with shoving Jordan as hard as he can in the compact space, grinning sheepishly. Jordan wants to kiss his cheek and stroke his hair, so he pecks his forehead and shoves him back. It's just the same.

"I'm getting right worried for you now, Hendo." He teases, and Jordan laughs, but continues anyway because Trent deserves to know what he is worth and what he should never settle for.

"I'm not joking!" He chuckles, nudging Trent with his shoulder. "Don't put up with it off anyone. If someone really cares, they'll prove it."

Trent snorts. "Oh, aye, like you?"

"Yeah! Like me." He teases.

Jordan doesn't quite realise the layers to what he's said, and maybe Trent doesn't either because he just smiles quietly, lips twisting like he's won something, pleased with himself. Gentle snuffling filters through after a few minutes, snores so quiet Jordan can only hear them because Trent's lying back in his seat, head centimetres from Jordan's. Jordan can feel the warmth of Trent's breath as it flutters past his lips, eyelids twitching in his light sleep. He smiles fondly, shuffling over so his shoulder cushions Trent's head. Trent turns further into him, forehead pressing into his t-shirt, lips wetting the seam.

Football pulses through his blood. Jordan couldn't explain it to anyone who hasn't experienced it themselves; its indescribable, impossible to understand. Untouchable. In that moment, cleats wedged in grass and body thrumming with adrenaline, football is all there is.

He claps the back of Trent's head as he goes, trotting towards the corner flag. Anfield's one beating heart, red bleeding through them all, pounds together and Jordan thinks this is the place where truly everything and nothing matters. There's no jeers or poison buried in the thousands of voices singing for Trent, nothing but bare-faced pride. Love for love's sake, selfless and forever. Football will always be all there is.

Jordan is smiling because of it. He smiles because it makes something stir in his chest, flit about his ribcage like a tiny bird fluttering its wings. He smiles because Trent is smiling, smiling for the people who don't care, for the crowd who help everyone forget for these 90 minutes. He's smiling because he's dripping in red; smiling because he's nodding at Jordan, mischievous glint in his eye; smiling because he's whipping in an inch perfect cross with all the strength of the thousands behind him.

Jordan shouts, directing people, preparing. The captain's armband has ridden down his arm, half caught on the sleeve of his shirt, half not. The friction against his sweat-sticky skin itches, faintly, but it's all secondary to the throbbing of his blood and buzzing in his ears. The ball skirts across heads, powerfully aimed, and Jordan jumps, eyes squeezing shut as he makes contact, eyes still shut as he feels hands grip his arms, waist, neck. He opens his eyes as Trent races towards him, face open and smiling, grin so impossibly wide.

"Pretty fucking good." Trent buries into his neck, lips brushing along the veins pulsing through his neck, words pressed there.

Jordan laughs, half-mad, disorientated and infinite. "Pretty _fucking_ good, kid." He mumbles back, and it doesn't matter if Trent doesn't even hear.

Jordan thinks a life passes and comes back around before they detach from each other. He smiles down at Trent, so soft it's strangely at odds with the aggression still powering his body, and thinks about what would happen if he slotted their lips together. Stroked Trent's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, held his jaw in one strong hand. Kissed his mouth pinker, tongue tickling along the seam.

"Jord?" Trent asks concernedly, slipping from his grip and ready to sprint back into position.

Jordan shakes his head violently, image clattering around his brain, warmth of Trent's body pressed against his still feeling plastered to his front. He grins disjointedly, offering Trent a silly thumbs up that makes him roll his eyes. He runs back into motion himself, feet pressed into the grass and digging their place, mouth suddenly dry. Football is all there is here, but maybe there's something else too, and he has to grit his teeth and muscle through the thought to make it to the end of the match.

"You've gotta take a break." Virgil jokes good-naturedly, shoving into Trent with his shoulder. "Leave the assists for someone else."

Trent beams but directs it at his boots, sheepishly pleased. Jordan squeezes the back of his neck, skin fever hot and damp between his fingers. He leaves his hand there as they walk, Virgil and Trent laughing together, and he wonders if its odd that Trent makes no reference to him, or the hand on his neck, or the certainty of Jordan next to him. He just laughs with Virgil and presses back into his hand minutely, only enough for Jordan to feel a slight push against his palm curled around the back of Trent's head.

Jordan has known Trent for all his life that matters. He laughs to himself, listening to the kettle boil, for thinking so. He watched him run into Anfield for the first time, tug on a crystal white England shirt for the first time. Watched his first goal and his first assist and his first win; first loss and first injury and first yellow card. He knows what Trent looks like when England lose a World Cup semi-final and when Liverpool win a Champions League.

Jordan stirs his tea absently, swilling more sugar than he normally allows himself in it and watching the dip in the centre where the spoon is moving. He wonders if he should call Adam, or FaceTime his girls, or text Trent. He empties the teabag pot and cleans it off without making a dent on the stains ringed around it and sits on his sofa and watches telly.

Jordan knows that Trent still has scabs on his knees sometimes, on his elbows others, and scars along his skin. He knows that he always seems to have this nick in the inside of his lip, that always seems to be faintly bloody, and Jordan only knows that because of how often Trent pouts, lower lip hanging out and eyebrows drawn tight. He knows that Trent sleeps on his side with the covers tangled around his legs and caught inbetween, and that he snores but its always quiet and snuffly. He knows that Trent smiles without relent when his eyes are still bleary with sleep, and that he snaps when he's tired or angry or sad. He knows that Trent cries but he always tries to hide it, even when everyone can hear through the door anyway.

Jordan watches a sitcom he's never watched before and laughs.

Trent's eyes are wide and bright, victory-shiny. He's grinning, hands on Jordan's shoulders, and he can hear Ox taking the piss out of Robbo and Mo and Lovren bickering lightheartedly in various states of undress. Someone bellows _Hendooo_ and it echoes all along the corridor, but no one can see them.

Jordan is smiling, teeth white and all showing, palm smoothing along Trent's back, and it seems like the thing to do, the only thing to possibly explain everything welling up inside him, all the time, the pride and the fondness and the joy he feels for all of them, but maybe, just especially, for Trent.

Trent breathes out, startled, against his mouth, nose digging right into the soft skin along Jordan's cheekbone. Jordan laughs against his lips and tries to angle his head to the side, find a better position because this is it, he thinks, this is how to explain it all but Trent isn't moving and he isn't kissing back and he's placing both palms against Jordan's chest and shoving him backwards.

"What the _fuck_?" He hisses, staring at Jordan furiously, mouth hanging open in disbelief. "Are you taking the piss?"

Jordan flounders. "No, of course I'm not." He sounds confused. Lost. "I want to kiss you, Trent."

Trent is shaking his head, anger vibrating through him. His hands are shaking where he clenches them against his legs, teeth gritted and jaw tight. Jordan wants to smooth the lines in his face out and kiss along his jaw until it relaxes but Trent is staring at him, breathing so heavily Jordan can feel it in his own lungs.

"I'm not a fucking experiment, Hendo." Trent's voice curls around his name, bitter and cold. His nose wrinkles in disgust. "I'm not something you can just play with to 'see what it's like'."

Jordan balks. Everything inside of him is squeezed, so tightly compressed he's struggling to breath just a little. Anger edges along it, his natural response, but it's quiet and overshadowed by the tightness of his lungs and heart and skin. It's all _wrong_.

"Hang on a second." He hisses back, and he knows its the wrong reaction, the wrong tone of voice, it's all wrong, wrong, wrong. "I mean it, Trent, I fucking mean it."

"Oh, right." Trent's nostrils are flaring. "Right, and you were married for 5 years, that the reason you split up? I'm not a joke, Jordan, it's not a joke."

"I fucking know that, I'm not experimenting, I just want to-"

Trent shakes his head, butting in. "'Want to' with someone else." He snaps. "I'm not your fucking plaything."

Trent is fast when he wants to be, slipping around the door into the locker room before Jordan can get a good grip on him. He screams through gritted teeth, muffled that way, thudding his head back against the wall and scrunching his eyes up tight, fists even tighter. He slams them against the wall a few times, just until he can feel the flesh grow tender and achey.

He groans again, actively unclenching his teeth before walking into the dressing room himself, body shutting down with the overload and running on autopilot. He sprays himself with too much aftershave and puts too much gel in his hair and puts his trackies on back to front first time.

He texts Trent a sorry x sat in the car park, tapping his fingers impatiently against the wheel of his car and debating whether it's even the right thing to do. He deletes and retypes the kiss until he shuts his eyes with the x decidedly tacked on and presses send without looking. He hears the whoosh of a delivered message and drops his phone on the back seat so he can't see it while he's driving.

"Is there a reason you and Trent aren't talking?" Adam asks, in that tone of voice where he is telling Jordan very obviously that he knows there is a reason.

Jordan sighs, eyeballing Trent from the corner of his eye. He's laughing, head thrown back, with Virgil, flapping his table tennis bat around the air as Ox films them with a cheeky grin. He doesn't notice Jordan's eyes on him.

"No." Jordan says shortly, prodding at the dried fruit in the strange pack he picked up from the nutritionist. It tastes like stale wood chip.

Adam's eyebrows raise disbelievingly. He falls onto the sofa next to Jordan, arms splayed along the back. Jordan chews on a knob of squishy brownness he thinks is supposed to be a raisin. When he looks back up, Adam and Robbo are conducting a silent conversation via eyebrow movements, growing increasingly wild. Jordan snorts, watching them amusedly, tipping the rest of the dried nothingness in his mouth and chewing it so fast he nibbles into his cheeks, just to remove the taste from his mouth as quickly as possible. He's finished picking cashew nut pieces from his teeth when Robbo collapses on the sofa opposite them, elbows on knees, hands folded under his chin, confident knowing twisting his lips.

"Hendo." He begins solemnly. Jordan tips his head in acknowledgement. "A good team is all about healthy team relations."

Jordan barks with laughter to hide the way he wants to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. Andy's statement has startled a genuine laugh out of him, though. His composure falls a little as he flashes a small smile before he breathes in deeply and sets his eyebrows. He and Adam share a look, before attention is diverted back towards Jordan.

"As a friend and teammate, what's the issue with you and Trent?"

Jordan looks at them both, nodding in support of each other, nodding at him to prompt him. He laughs, in sheer disbelief, laughs long enough his body shakes with it and he lunges forwards, but they're still just staring when he quietens down. He changes tactic, and sighs.

"Just a little disagreement." Jordan shrugs. "I've apologised. He's just enjoying his power trip."

Adam and Robbo nod their heads contemplatively, looking at each other again and discussing something without saying a single word. Jordan is starting to feel faintly unnerved by it.

"Disagreement?" Adam encourages. "It's just not like _you_ , y'know. Especially not with Trent."

Jordan sighs - he has to give him that. Jordan never falls out with anyone, never holds a vow of silence. He powers through his issues before they ever have a chance to ferment, will argue them out or right them as soon as they arise, because what's the point in not? Trent seems to be enjoying holding this over his head, however. That, or Jordan genuinely hurt him entirely unintentionally, but that option makes something sting in Jordan's chest, so he tries not to think about it.

"Not a big deal. Just Trent being a brat." Jordan curses himself internally for how bitter he sounds.

He looks up and Trent is watching him, mouth curled in a malicious little smirk. Jordan shakes his head at him and Trent just raises his eyebrows before turning away.

"Well." Robbo starts. "We're always here, mate."

Jordan laughs, nodding. He knows that. "Cheers, lads. Thanks for the inquisition."

They laugh, and joke, and Robbo starts telling them about how Rocco's coping at nursery, and Adam asks how his wife's coping with the pregnancy, and they dissolve into idle chitchat that leaves Jordan plenty of brain capacity to think about Trent. He's been trying to ignore it, as best he can. Trent never replied to his apology, or any of the ones he offered in person, and maybe Jordan doesn't send him texts goodnight when he thinks to, or about the new programme Channel 4 are showing he thinks Trent will like, or the latest tweet about Liverpool he thinks Trent will find funny, but he can live without that. Trent isn't ignoring him so much as pretending they're completely different; they'll speak but it's meaningless and frustrating and Jordan really can't think about anything other than how pink Trent's lips are when he's telling Jordan things that he doesn't have to pay attention to.

"Are you going to Jesse's launch party?" Trent demands, eyes wide and hard as he stares at him.

"Yes?" Jordan says uncertainly. "I'm in the group chat with you?"

Trent sniggers, like Jordan is the one who's being thick. Jordan bristles at it, preparing to give him a little telling off for his cheek, and he thinks he should most definitely be worried about how much he's missed shouting at Trent until his cheeks heat and he glares at Jordan all flustered and cowed. He just manages to hold in a chuckle at the mental image, and by that time, the window to tell him off has passed. He doesn't think he has that authority over Trent at the moment anyway, not off the pitch.

"You better not ditch me." Trent warns him petulantly.

"When do I, kid?" Jordan reminds him, unable to stop his face opening in a smile at the normality of this interaction, the return to form.

Trent waves his hand like that's by the by and stalks off to his own car. Jordan watches him go, swearing quietly for forgetting to ask what he's thinking of wearing, before deciding he can't give Trent too much power. He can't show Trent how much he's missed him for the little things, the little comments and questions and jibes they share like breathing. It's only been a few days but their little bust-up has carved a hole inside Jordan's brain, eating its way out. He's frankly a little worried about how much he seems to miss Trent, even all the things that usually drive him up the wall, when Trent carefully retains them. Must be unnatural at his age to feel that way.

Jordan shakes his head from side to side, staring himself down in the mirror. His phone is playing some playlist Trent sent him once he actually quite likes, even though he pretended to despise it. He's styling his hair as meticulously as always, spritzing his cologne sparingly. His jeans feel tight, rubbing against his thighs uncomfortably because they're new and the denim is still stiff, but he thinks he looks good. Good enough none of the lads will take the piss, at the very least.

Trent is swaying from side to side nervously when Jordan's taxi drops him off. His eyes light up before he squashes the brightness and smooths his features out until he looks appropriately bored, at the sight of Jordan leaving his car. Jordan laughs, ruffling his hair without thinking about the days of careful stagnancy between them, and it burns more than it should when Trent swivels away, out of reach and with no hello.

"Trent!" Someone drawls to their right, Jordan close behind Trent just in case, even though he doubts he wants his actual company.

Trent's head swings to the side, all careful nonchalance and bitchy stare. Jordan snorts, watching him direct it at Stones who's stumbling through the crowd of people to get to them.

"And Hendo!" He cries, arms wide, grin sloppy and vodka-flavoured already. "Where's the boyfriend, Trent?"

Jordan grits his teeth, knowing Trent's face is growing stonier, eyes hardening and lips curling. Stones just laughs, loud and harsh, shoving Trent with a shoulder he probably doesn't realise was that strong. Trent's nostrils flare as neon stickiness flows from Stones' glass onto his shoes, stumbling sideways at the impact.

"Surely you've got a boyfriend? Little twink like you." He teases, pinching fingertips coming out to grip Trent's cheek between his nails. Jordan feels faintly ill.

"Stones, mate, you alright there?" He grits out, as passive-aggressively as he can without it edging into true anger. "Maybe slow it down, eh? There's a good lad."

Stones makes a face that Jordan doesn't stay long enough to really look at, steering Trent towards the bar with a palm against his lower back, rubbing in unconscious circles into the warmth of his skin. Somehow his hand has slipped underneath his t-shirt, fingers against bare skin and the waistband of his jeans, but he just presses in harder until they're leaning against the bar, Trent breathing heavily through his nose and scuffing at the floor.

"Hendo?" He mutters, voice quiet but firm. Jordan is ordering them their drinks, back turned away. "He's only taking the piss. Because he is pissed."

Jordan chuckles despite himself and he hears Trent let out a little snort of laughter too.

"I know." Jordan shrugs, handing Trent his drink. "I'm gonna go find Barkley."

He doesn't find Barkley and he doesn't particularly want to. He congratulates Jesse on his new collection even though for the life of him he couldn't tell a soul what it looks like, and finds Dier watching the Spurs lads with half an eye, sat alone and inordinately pleased to have Jordan's company. Through the mass of bodies, he sometimes sees a slit of Trent, the back of his head or the print on his t-shirt and it quiets any worries he has every time.

"How's Trent?" Dier asks when conversation lulls. He's a quiet drunk, slower and sleepier. Jordan thinks its because he always chooses wine regardless of occasion.

He sighs. "Good. It's quietened down now, y'know? Back to normal, really." _So, so close to it_.

Dier nods sombrely. "I messaged when it all came up. Not surprised I got no reply but just wanted to check. Good to hear." Jordan smiles in reply, sincere.

"Alright, Eric!" Trent slurs, eyes bright and round. He looks so open Jordan wants to hold him. "Mind if I pinch Jord off you?" It's punctuated by a little hiccup.

Trent already has Jordan's wrist in a bony grip, pulling him up so hard Jordan hears something in his shoulder pop. He winces, grimacing weakly at Eric in lieu of an apologetic smile, but Dier just waves them away with a clumsy arm and drunk smile. Jordan sways a little on his feet when he's safely been led out of the booth, Trent's hand still wrapped tightly around his arm, nails pinching into the skin. Standing up makes all the alcohol settled in his body swim back up to his head, beating a tattoo against his brain, and he suddenly feels so much sloppier. He grins dazedly at Trent and receives a squeeze to his wrist in reply.

"Trent, Trent, what d'you want?" He stumbles, wrapping his arm around Trent's shoulders, other wrist still caught in Trent's grip. "Anything. Whatever you want. Anything." His tongue feels too loose.

Trent laughs, and the noise sounds like happiness, bright and delirious and Jordan thinks oh. Something clicks somewhere, a realisation he can't quite grab hold of.

"If I can have anything." Trent smiles toothily, all cocky confidence that makes Jordan's blood run hot. Jordan waits for him to finish his sentence, but no ending comes, and very abruptly he's faced with himself in the mirror, click of a lock resounding through the little room.

"Other people need to use this." Jordan is trying to be rational. His cock is already starting to press against his fly uncomfortably. He doesn't understand. "You're ignoring me. We haven’t been talking." He accuses in his next breath.

"All single toilets, Jord. And that's why you're gonna shut your fat gob."

"Kid-“ Jordan starts, reaching forward to stroke a hand through Trent’s hair. He can see how it takes all Trent’s willpower not to lean into it.

“Don’t call me kid.” He grits out, eyes squeezed shut tight in frustration and Jordan chuckles before he can stop himself, buzz of alcohol making him feel oddly cocksure even though he’s walking a knife-fine edge.

“What d’you want me to call you, then?” Jordan teases. His brain, pounding uncomfortably with every attempt at logical thinking, is screaming at him to rethink, but his mouth is barrelling forwards regardless. He doesn’t know why he’s pushing and pushing and pushing but it’s like an electric shock of adrenaline he doesn’t want to stop. “Love? Darling? Sweetheart?” He laughs, watching as the lines in Trent’s face deepen as he does. “Good boy?”

Trent clenches his jaw. “You’ve made your point. I really don’t care.” Jordan knows just how much he does care, but maybe if they’re both hiding from the truth it’s all okay.

“Alright, then.” He says causally, like every inch of his skin isn’t thrumming with excitement and apprehension, alcohol bubbling along his throat and making him feel faintly nauseous. “C’mere, love.”

Trent rolls his eyes but slides into Jordan’s grip anyway, body loose and sloppy with the drinks he’s been plied with. He smells like fresh sweat and alcohol and too much cologne - Jordan wants to be put off by it. Trent giggles a little, and Jordan’s eyes gleam, and he thinks that maybe they’re okay, maybe this is okay now, before he presses their lips together softly. He’s not sure which of them tastes like vodka, can’t remember if he was even drinking it, but the taste is strong when his tongue darts across Trent’s lips. Relief is all he feels in the first seconds before Trent smirks cockily against his mouth and Jordan nips his lips with the very edge of his teeth. It only makes him smirk harder.

“You’re not allowed to talk.” Trent reminds him as he drops clumsily to his knees.

Jordan raises his eyebrows, gazing down at him heart lodged in his throat. He strokes a hand through Trent’s hair firmly, carding through it, and wonders what would happen if he pulled. He doesn’t want to try his luck so he keeps his hand gentle and safe.

“You’re bossy.” He manages to breath out and Trent rolls his eyes, tugging on Jordan’s jeans until they’re just low enough for Trent to pull his cock out, which makes it all the dirtier and Jordan feels vaguely sheepish.

Jordan is already panting for breath, desperate and terrified. He wants this so much he’s never even realised it and being allowed to have it feels dangerous. Trent is drunk, drunk and reckless, shameless and sure to regret this, maybe before he’s even finished, and Jordan thinks he cares too much about their friendship, about Trent to risk that -

Trent takes him into his mouth in one smooth bob of his head, only halfway before he lifts himself off, lips dragging too sweet along his cock, and Jordan groans. Trent laughs and pushes himself back down, eyes closed and face so open Jordan wants nothing more than to love him, give him everything he’s never thought of. The trust in everything Trent is doing feels so precious Jordan feels faintly like he’s taking advantage.

His dick is slowly becoming coated in Trent’s spit, dripping down to the base he can’t reach, and the noise is obscene. It echoes through Jordan’s ears, competing with the vacant static already dominating, and Jordan smacks his head backwards against the wall when Trent licks around the head of his cock, and it adds a throbbing pain to the desperate overload of sensation.

“You’re so perfect, Trent.” Jordan says quietly, voice tight with the strain of keeping it level, and Trent hums around his cock in thanks, eyelashes fluttering at the praise.

He pulls off just long enough to smirk at Jordan’s _fuck_ at the vibration. When he feeds the head back into his mouth, Jordan can feel the needy stutter of his hips into the heat, and it only takes Trent hollowing his cheeks and humming again for Jordan to shove forward, coming down his throat.

“Jesus.” He gasps, hair loose from its hold, tickling across his forehead.

Trent’s head is pressed into his thigh, face turned into the material of his jeans. He’s panting, eyes still closed, dribble of Jordan’s come slipping down his lips that he’s too tired to lick away just yet. Jordan strokes back through his hair carefully, shushing him gently without even realising he’s doing it.

When Trent heaves himself up, he presses his face into Jordan’s chest, right under his chin so his curls tickle along his jaw. Jordan chuckles, feeling the way Trent’s body moves slightly with the domino effect of his own chest expanding. They stand together, Jordan’s arms looped around Trent’s waist, and gradually their breathing slows. There’s no hardness pressing into Jordan’s thigh and he wonders when that happened. How he missed that.

He dots needy kisses along Trent’s sweaty hairline before he peels him away, pecking his lips when Trent looks up at him dazedly, drained and dreamy.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” Jordan whispers, swinging his arm around Trent’s shoulder and squeezing. “I never meant to make you feel like I only wanted you to see what it's like.” His orgasm was oddly sobering.

Trent nods his head, quiet. Jordan squeezes his shoulder again and kisses the side of his head. He calls them a cab to share, palm resting on Trent’s thigh the whole journey. They don’t speak, but when the taxi pulls up outside Trent’s house, his own house, not his Mum and Dad’s, he leans across the seat in between them to kiss Jordan carefully, and nuzzle against him before the door slams shut.

_Sleep tight x_ Jordan texts him as soon as the taxi pulls away but a reply never comes.

They don't room together during international duty, because it's a person per room now, but they are allocated rooms next to each other, just because they always are. Russia was the catalyst; Trent's comments on the tidiness of his room and empty aerosol cans of suncream and late nights watching Trent cross-legged talking about everything and nothing. Jordan fell into the routine easier than lacing his boots or stepping onto the pitch. Trent had kissed his cheek okay after he missed and he'd held Trent's hand after the loss. They'd cried and smiled and laughed and screamed, and all of it as one.

That's why Jordan barely raises an eyebrow as Trent lets himself into Jordan's room at St. George's Park. He sits in the chair next to the window, fiddling with the cream curtains. He cocks a head at the telly playing a Euro Qualifier between countries Jordan would never have heard of without football. Trent deems it unworthy of his attention and turns back to the curtains, arranging them until they hang perfectly. Jordan smiles fondly. The silence is perfect.

"Want a cuppa?" Jordan asks as half-time folds in, gesturing towards the kettle. "They gave me more teabags this morning."

Trent giggles and shrugs, nodding his head. Jordan makes their tea without looking anywhere but at the cups. He eyes the packet of sugar but resolutely stirs his tea without it, carrying the mugs over without looking back, grimacing just slightly at having to drink his tea without it.

"I know you take sugar, Hendo." Trent tells him slyly.

Jordan laughs, rolling his eyes, hoping his cheeks aren't as pink as they feel. He empties the whole packet in, licking up the granules that escape onto the table with a wet fingertip.

"Want me to teach you how to play chess?" Trent asks absentmindedly, trying to peel his socks off with his toes. He manages one and Jordan makes a massive deal of acting disgusted as he flicks it away.

"Don't have the brain cells for that right now, love." Jordan says.

"I'll teach you one day." Trent warns, and Jordan knows he's supposed to laugh at the threat running through his tone, but he can only smile wistfully.

"Come up, we'll watch telly." He pats the bed beside him, paying vague attention to an old reality programme, Don't Tell The Bride maybe, from the way the man is listlessly contemplating flower arrangements.

Trent looks like he wants to protest but he sits on the bed beside Jordan anyway, tucking his legs up under his body before deciding against it and spreading them wide, knees flat to the bed. He's taking up a ridiculous amount of space for such a small mass. Jordan shoves him, knocks their knees together, huffing and Trent just laughs happily, eyes bright. He settles back against the pillows, one sock still on, curled on his side. Jordan wriggles down until he's level.

"Blokes on this are always fucking useless." Trent spits. Jordan nods his agreement enthusiastically. "Shocking."

"Like you could do much better." Jordan scoffs, just to be contrary.

Trent lifts his head up to glare at Jordan, scandalised. "Of course I could! My wedding would be perfect!"

If Jordan challenged him to a perfect wedding, Trent would ensure it. His competitive streak cuts through all else.

"Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better." He teases, expecting a hand to the back of his head, and lo and behold he gets it. He barks with laughter, wriggling on the bed with it, and Trent just crosses his arms and mutters under his breath.

Trent gradually moves closer in towards him, somehow doing it so Jordan doesn't even realise until his head is rested lightly on Jordan's shoulder. He's deliberately remained silent, because if they don't talk about things, they don't stop them, and his pride would never let him. Jordan's stomach clenches. He brings a hand up to card through the curls at the back of Trent's hair, feeling the careful rise and fall of his ribcage as he dozes off, breathing wetly against him. The gentle shudder through his body as he drifts off soundly, pressed all along Jordan's side, makes Jordan decide that Trent can't remember what happened in the bathroom. Or he does and they've made a silent mutual agreement to neglect a mention of it, forever.

Jordan looks down at Trent's face as he dozes, open and clear, lips parted and glistening on the inside where the slickness catches in the low lamplight. He thinks about waking up with Trent's body plastered all along his front, hair caught in his mouth and tickling his chin. He'd kiss the knob at the top of his spine, where it juts out of the skin dangerously when his back is curved, and Trent would stir and smile at him lazily. He'd demand Jordan makes him tea, everyday up to Jordan, and Jordan would groan and complain about it, but really he wouldn't mind. They'd sit on their settee together and bicker over how to make dinner in their kitchen and kiss in their doorway the second they got through the door.

Trent whines in his sleep and rolls away, turned to the other side.

“No, no, he doesn’t like mushrooms when they’re cooked like that.” Jordan shakes his head.

Joe stares at him strangely, like he’s alien, but dutifully brushes the mushrooms off the plate and back into the tray. Jordan nods, grinning at Joe in an attempt to remove the look he’s fixing at Jordan, but it’s still there. Joe mutters something under his breath and then laughs, clapping Jordan on the back when his hands are freed as he rests the plates he’s filling for him and Trent on the table cloth. Jordan stands with him as they wait for the toaster to ping, mindlessly chatting about Atlético and the threat Felix is beginning to pose. Sometimes Joe looks over his shoulder, Jordan can only assume at Trent, and it strikes him as a little odd, but he doesn’t care enough to comment.

They wander back to the table they’re sharing with Trent and Robbo, Milner sliding into the empty seat beside Andy as they sit down.

“Lazy bastard, Trent.” Jordan teases as Joe hands over his plate.

Trent glares at him from under his eyebrows. “He’s already going up, he may as well do mine too.” He argues primly, carefully separating his food.

Jordan laughs, shrugging. Joe eyes Trent for long enough Trent notices and looks up from his beans, raising his eyebrows expectantly. They seem to conduct a silent conversation and Jordan wonders when and where his teammates learnt to speak to each other without saying a word, and how he missed out.

Milner and Robbo drag him into their conversation about Ñíguez and he turns his attention away, eagerly launching into the discussion. When he looks behind his shoulder to check if everyone’s come down for breakfast, he catches Trent’s eye, already watching him. His mouth quirks, opening to question it, but Trent turns away as soon as he’s caught and spears a stray chunk of mushroom on the end of his fork, scraping it on his napkin.

The third time Jordan kisses Trent, he thinks he can taste salt in his mouth. He kisses Trent harder until it's metal, nips at Trent's lips and surely catches on the little nick on the inside because Trent whines and when Jordan next swipes his tongue across, it sits on his tongue like silver. His hand is holding Trent's jaw in place, other wrapped tightly around his waist. They're breathing harshly through their noses and Jordan thinks _maybe_.

“I can’t be like. Your missus or anything.” Trent pants when they break apart, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and staring at the wet trail. "I know." He breathes in. "I know I've let some things happen. But I'm not just gonna suddenly become your missus, Jord."

Jordan wonders if the salt was maybe him. He feels like he's riding into battle on a horse with three legs and a crooked sword, to face an opponent who's already won. His stomach feels bottomless, fallen through. Completely hollow.

"I know." Jordan says, and he _does_ , but he just thought - maybe. "I know." His voice sounds oddly choked. His own naivety astounds him.

"Is that really what you wanted?" Trent asks, near incredulously. Something in Jordan's face must make him take the sting out of it.

_I_ _wanted_ _you_. "I'm not thick, Trent." Jordan hopes his brave face works. "I would like that, though. Yeah." Jordan is honest, cripplingly so at times, and he worries this is one.

"I was _forcibly_ outed, Jordan." Trent tells him like he could ever forget, and he knows this is all important because Trent only ever calls him Jordan when it is. "I don't want to hide a relationship when, as much as it wasn't my choice, I have the opportunity to not. It's not fair."

Jordan feels his skin prickle with something a lot like anger, but it's only directed at himself. He's selfish, so selfish it makes him want to peel his skin off and move clubs so he can leave Trent alone and let him have the life he should have and the love he deserves. He wants to be selfless so, so bad because he cares about Trent more than trophies and paychecks and his own desires, but he just wonders if maybe he can give Trent the care he so badly wants him to have.

"Soon." Jordan begins, and squeezes his eyes shut. "I'll be retiring soon. A few years, and people won't care, I can do it. Soon it won't matter."

Trent's breath hitched dangerously at Jordan's mention of retirement and his own throat feels tight. He stays resolute, stands up taller.

"I just want you to be happy." Jordan says, looking somewhere over Trent's shoulder because he's not the brave one or the mature one. He's not like Trent. "I want to look after you and make sure you're always okay."

A whimper catches in Trent's throat. His eyes look shinier, surface wobbling. "You can't ask me to wait, Hendo. I can't wait years for you to be there for me properly."

Jordan nods. "I know. I know. I want you to be happy more than I want you to be with me." It sounds disgustingly self-pitying even to his own ears.

Trent shakes his head angrily. "You stupid fuck." He hisses. "You stupid, stupid fuck. _You_ make me happy, you stupid fucking cunt. It's not that fucking easy."

Jordan nods, again, dumbly, despising himself for needing a 22 year old to tell him how to behave, for forgetting himself enough that he's lost control, that careful edge of leadership he's always held because that's a part of it; that's part of him looking after Trent, always being the strong one, the one who knows what to do and can tell Trent whatever he needs and doesn't want to hear. His vulnerability is seeping through the cracks, and Trent is stoic. Trent knows how the world works, and Jordan almost wishes he didn't.

"I'm not." Trent inhales shakily. "I'm not saying anything definite but you can't promise me anything and I can't promise you anything either."

Jordan nods, laughs weakly. "I know. I'm sorry, kid."

Trent eyes him darkly but it's tired and more a trip through the routine than anything genuine. "Thought we put that to bed after the shagging."

That startles a laugh out of him. The unspeakable has been spoken about. Mischief is dancing in Trent's eyes and it makes something strangely light float in his chest, given everything. He grins.

"Never." Jordan jokes, and he hopes the little slip of a laugh means everything will be okay.

The clock has reset itself. Trent grins at him across the pool table and accuses him of cheating when they do bloody rondo in training even though it's impossible to cheat and hugs him when they win. He texts Jordan when something funny happens and he gets pissy about Jordan fighting all his battles and everything is normal. Everything is okay.

"You and Trent seem closer than ever." Adam smiles, bare arms glistening in the spring sun. Jordan can see him squinting even through his sunglasses.

"Yeah, well." Jordan shrugs, taking a long gulp of his beer. "Someone's gotta stop him throwing his temper tantrums."

"Jordan to the rescue yet again." Adam jokes, nudging Jordan with his own bottle. They watch their kids ripping up grass and breaking flowerpots with the football and stealing each other's food. Jordan smiles, fond and happy.

"Are you interested in anyone?" Adam asks as his wife rushes forwards to stop Jordan's little girl chewing through her handful of grass. Jordan just watches laughing, holding up a hand in apology when Emily glares at him for his lack of help. "Single a while, mate."

Jordan turns back towards Adam. One of his eyebrows is neatly raised, face open in question. He smiles, tapping his bottle against his forearm and leaving a wet smear of condensation on the little hairs.

"Nah." Jordan shakes his head. "Nobody." _There's_ _always_ _someone_.

"I'm just saying, I can definitely beat you at darts."

Jordan snorts. "In your wet dreams, maybe. Pub games I'm always gonna win, Trent." He pauses to allow for Trent's indignant splutter. "Chess and-" He flounders for an example. "Uno, they're your games."

Trent's eyebrows are raised. His face is set in open scandal. What Jordan has said equates to _you're_ _shit_ _at_ _everything_ in Trent's world. He waves the darts in Jordan's face, thankfully flight way up.

"I don't even play Uno much. And I can definitely beat you."

Jordan smirks, raising his own eyebrows cockily. "You're on, kid."

It's something of a car crash - morbidly fascinating, something you know you shouldn't watch but is impossible not to. They've garnered a small audience, more than a few phones filming, as Trent tries and fails over and over. There's a pattern of tiny holes in the wall from frequent mishits, and one dart is still lodged in the plaster from his current attempts. Trent is growling through gritted teeth, face pinched. Jordan just barely manages to muffle his laughter in his sleeve.

"It's alright." Jordan teases, rubbing his fist roughly across Trent's head. "Admitting defeat is a wise man's choice."

Trent glowers at him, lips curled petulantly. Jordan lets out a little snort that burns in his nose with the effort of keeping in. Their crowd has disappeared at Adam's insistence, his knowing gaze on Trent's pout. Jordan knocks Trent into his side and gestures towards the pool table.

"I'll let you win." He jibes, waggling his eyebrows and Trent whines, shoving him away but he picks up a cue the next second.

Jordan watches amusedly as Trent meticulously rubs blue chalk on the tip, brushing the residue on the pads of his fingers against Jordan's joggers. He lines up and breaks, smiling proudly to himself as he pots a striped ball, looking up to check Jordan is seeing this. His next shot bypasses the ball he was aiming for by inches, potting the white ball instead. Jordan howls with laughter. He has to lean against Trent to keep himself up.

The next day he drops a book he found in his cupboard recently and has kept on his coffee table since, on the table in front of Trent as he eats his granola and yoghurt. Trent stares at it, unimpressed, eyes skirting back upwards to Jordan's beam and then back down again. He smiles sarcastically, more a strange leer, and Jordan chuckles clapping him on the back.

"I know how to play pool." Trent says, poking the book away with the edge of his spoon.

Jordan sighs. "I know. You're just not very good at it."

Jordan laughs to himself as he walks away, unimaginably grateful that normalcy was never as fragile as he thought.

It's not that Jordan doesn't think about it. He does, more than he doesn't. He sits on his sofa alone after training and imagines Trent tucked up beside him, picking apart everything they watch with that snarky bite in his voice that always makes Jordan laugh. He imagines being allowed to kiss Trent all the time, whenever he wants, being allowed to know how Trent kisses when he's sleepy and when he's won and when he's lost. He imagines making him tea and cooking him dinner and listening to Trent teach him how to play chess, and in every scenario he kisses the top of Trent's head sweetly and quietly and that's just how it is. He imagines, but never dwells on it, because he'd rather have Trent any way he's allowed him, even if it's not the way he wants most.

"We're so close, Hendo." Trent mumbles dreamily over the line. Jordan hums, eating another spoonful of yoghurt.

"You're gonna be captain of a Premier League-winning Liverpool squad. That's mad."

Jordan hums again, scraping his pot clean of yoghurt and licking the spoon clear. It _is_ mad. If Jordan thinks about it too long he has to take a shower hot enough to peel the skin from his back, so he stays quiet.

"You don't sound very excited." Trent accuses. Jordan knows his arms will be folded.

He laughs, close to breathlessly. "Trust me, kid." A shaky inhale. "I'm excited."

"I know we've already got it practically in the bag but give it you're all, lads. 90 more minutes and it's ours."

Jordan's voice shakes as he talks. He claps along with the rest of the squad, so hard his palms sting, and hugs them all as they walk through the door to the tunnel to the pitch of their crowning game. Jordan's cleats will dig a mark into this grass as champion in two hours of another million. Anfield will win. Thousands of hearts beating as one, and it all boils down to this. The surreality aches.

Tackle, tackle, goal, yellow card, injury, conceded. Missed penalty, tackle, corner, goal, _goal, tackle, free kick, whistle_ -

Trent presses the words into his neck, the side of his face. They cling to the layer of sweat across his entire body, Trent's thumbs holding his head in place, lips so close and breath so hot. Jordan feels like every inch of his skin could give you an electric shock, fizzing and buzzing along his entire body. His head is pounding and his heart is sprinting full pelt and he can't open his mouth because he's terrified of what might come out. Tears sit in the corner of his eyes, fat and stinging. He's gulping for breath, hands pressed into Trent hard enough he can feel the muscle and bone underneath skin. He's shaking, pressing his eyes into Trent's shoulder, sobbing into the material. There's too much inside him and there's no way out.

"We can't promise." Trent mumbles into the shell of his ear, grip on his neck firm enough to press bruises into the skin. "But I wanna try."

Jordan chokes out a sob, arms wrapped around Trent so tight he can feel the ladder of his ribcage, the soft line of skin in between each rung.

"I'm so proud." He mumbles thickly, clinging onto him.

"I know." Trent whispers and Jordan feels the heat of his tears as they burn down his cheeks. "You always are." It's wry enough to sober Jordan just a little.

"I know." He sputters, pressing their foreheads together, sweat mingling and dripping into their eyes. Trent just smiles, leaning forward to peck his lips hard before he breaks away, grin so wide it widens Jordan's own.

When he turns towards the crowd, vision blurred by the film of tears, something catches his eye. He scrubs his knuckles in his eyes, distracted momentarily by Bobby hugging him tight into his body and Adam pressing a sloppy kiss to the side of his head. In the fracas he's moved slightly, banner no longer in this eyeline and he has to shuffle back around in a tight circle until he sees it again, white and large, a few rows back and taking up a few rows after that. It written in a million different colours, all bright and bold, back-shot of Trent's jersey either side, liverbird in every corner. _Thank You, Trent_.

Jordan can't do anything to stop himself. He cries and cries and cries.

Jordan is kissing up Trent’s neck, dry, close mouthed kisses until he finds his pressure point. He bites into that, sucking at the skin and pulling it between his teeth until the skin starts to darken, and Trent’s whines reach fever pitch. He bites back down, licks across it, kisses it better.

“Jord.” Trent breathes.

Trent’s hands fumble for his jaw, his neck, pulling him in and Jordan smiles against his mouth just before they join. Everything still tastes faintly of the salt of victory, even the day later. Jordan’s cheeks are still tight with the residue and everything feels faintly stale from the celebrations in the aftermath and this is it. Everything in one moment, a rush of impossibility within hours.

They kiss until Jordan’s lips start to feel dry, cracking on the ridge. He laughs delirious into Trent’s mouth and pulls his jeans down and away, gives himself the same treatment, pulling Trent onto his lap in one surprisingly smooth movement. Trent makes a funny noise like an exhalation of breath he wasn’t expecting to let go of, and buries his head in Jordan’s neck.

“Trent.” Jordan whispers, grinding his hips up, hardening cock rubbing against the fabric of his briefs, the curve of Trent’s ass through his.

He can feel Trent smile against his neck before he licks into his clavicle and kisses, sucking tiny marks in a line across his collarbone. The tip of his tongue as he drags it across tickles, and Jordan tugs at Trent’s hair without meaning to, but he only whines and falls lax in Jordan’s grip. He stutters in motion for a minute at the reaction before he thrusts his hips up rougher.

“Fuck me.” Trent demands, voice quiet but commanding and Jordan laughs, laughs and grins.

“Bossy.” He teases, knowing they’ve been here before and they’ll be here again, over and over. His heart rabbits at the knowledge.

Trent rolls his eyes and wriggles out of his pants, playing with the waistband of Jordan’s until he raises his hips high enough for Jordan to remove them too. He sighs and wraps a hand around Jordan’s cock, hard already in his grip. Jordan breathes and stares at Trent’s dick as it twitches against the muscled flat of his stomach.

“Love.” Jordan mutters, fingertips kneading into Trent’s ass. “I’m so proud of you.” He whispers the words into Trent’s hair. “So fucking proud.”

Trent pushes himself away, shuffling back until he’s rested on Jordan’s knees. He rolls his eyes, half exasperated half fond, hand hovering over the duvet until he finds the packets of lube hidden in a crease. He’s still staring at Jordan like he knows something he doesn’t as he coats his own fingers in lube, rubbing it between them until it’s warm enough.

“I wanted to do that.” Jordan gripes, watching slack-jawed anyway as Trent reaches behind himself.

“I can do it perfect myself.” Trent tells him airily. “And I know, Jordan. I’ve always known. Always will know. You tell me all the time.”

Jordan snorts with sheepish laughter. He drags Trent back up into his lap, grappling for another lube packet and spreading it on his own fingers. Trent’s already one finger deep, curling lazily inside, so Jordan massages around his rim until it’s wet and ready, and pushes his own finger in alongside. Trent breathes in deeply and lurches forward.

“I just like knowing you know.” Jordan tells him, a little short of breath with the strangeness of another finger dragging against his inside that tight heat.

“I know.” Trent laughs, starting to ride their fingers in careful, calculated movements that still make Jordan pant.

“You can fuck me now.”

Jordan laughs, nips the thin skin on his neck until he yelps, and fumbles with a condom.

“Can I now?” He mocks, nudging the head of his cock against Trent’s hole, slide of it slick and easy.

Trent rolls his eyes, eyebrows drawn in concentration. He reaches back to position, hips working down to take him in. He breathes in deep, chest visibly expanding, as he slides down slowly, raising up just to push himself back down, and Jordan is clenching his fists and digging his nails into his palms to cope with the tightness and the heat and the desperate whine caught in Trent’s throat.

They move tightly, close together. Too close, really, Trent has no room to move and his cock rubs against Jordan’s upper stomach. His legs are curled around Jordan’s waist, tightening when Jordan skims across his prostrate. His mouth is open and he’s breathing quickly, soft puffs of air against Jordan’s face. They kiss, more a press of open mouths that groan together, and Jordan rubs up and down Trent’s thighs, his sides, his ass. He wants to come but he wants this to last forever.

“I can come like this.” Trent tells him shakily, like that isn’t going to break Jordan’s resolve hanging by a thread. “Just-“

He gasps as Jordan thrusts more to the left, cock dragging against Trent’s spot and drawing out broken whine after broken whine. Trent’s hand is curled around the back of his head, fingers flexing in the hair he can grip at, keeping him as close as possible. He’s barely even thrusting now, just grinding in deep and relentless, and Trent is shivering in his grip, cock dripping against his abdomen. His eyes are bright and syrupy, mouth caught in a smug smile when he isn’t moaning. Jordan kisses his cheek and then his forehead.

“Come for me, Trent.” Jordan tells him steadily. “Come.”

Trent shakes apart, spurting against their stomachs, hot but quickly cooling. He whines with the oversensitivity and Jordan grunts, biting into his shoulder as the rhythmic clenching of Trent’s body and his breathy moans take him over the edge.

“Cheese puff.” Trent mumbles into his shoulder. “It better not be like that every time we shag.”

Jordan laughs loudly, head thrown back. “Bloody hell, give a man some warning before you bruise his ego like that.”

Trent giggles, curling into Jordan’s chest. His fingertips are tracing the lines of the tattoo on Jordan’s thigh, softly. He snorts, sound muffled by Jordan’s shoulder, and Jordan laughs. He shivers as Trent’s nails drift lightly over the skin, tickle of it tingling across his overstimulated skin. He’s still inside, softening slowly, and it’s uncomfortable and faintly gross but he doesn’t want to move.

“Never realised you’d be such a romantic, Hendo.” Trent tells the ceiling when Jordan knocks them over, rolling Trent onto his back.

He snorts. “You’ve got so much to learn.”

Trent scrunches his nose up sweetly. Jordan kisses the tip of it. “Have to get a wriggle on, then.” He smirks.

Jordan shuffles out of bed, careful not to disturb the covers too much. Trent snuffles in his sleep, curling further in on himself now he doesn't have the surety of Jordan's body behind him. Jordan shivers as he slides free, missing the almost childlike fever-hot heat of Trent's skin in his sleep. He smiles a little to himself, sliding into a pair of joggers discarded by the door, and patters downstairs into his kitchen. He doesn't stop to check his reflection in the mirror, running a hand through his hair to keep it away from his face and finding it oddly rigid with leftover hair gel and cling of sweat. He grimaces, chuckling to himself, and sets a pan on the hob, flicking at the kettle.

He's set his kitchen table nicely, plate of bacon and eggs and the odd tomatoes swimming in his vegetable tray, cup of tea next to his glass of orange juice and yesterday's newspaper in his lap, by the time he hears soft footsteps on the stairs.

"Plate's in the oven!" Jordan calls without turning around, scoffing at the Guardian's critique of their title-winning game two days ago.

"Cheat day, is it?" Trent asks, teasing around the edges. Jordan shrugs and places the newspaper carefully in front of Trent's seat, just in case he's interested.

"I guess it's a special occasion. What was wrong with your own clothes?" Jordan asks with one eyebrow raised neatly.

Trent looks down at himself as he slides into place, rasher of bacon already lodged in his mouth. He's wearing one of Jordan's polo-shirts, and the shoulders droop somewhere along his biceps and it skirts around the top of his thighs and sits loosely on his torso. The material of the joggers is all bunched up along his waist, drawstring pulled in tight. Jordan feels warm, little sparks of something he could chase if he wanted, but if left alone, just feels like everything is okay.

"You want me to get jeans and a shirt on for a bit of bacon?" Trent retorts, arranging his food perfectly and squirting a precise dollop of tomato sauce exactly between the eggs and bacon. Jordan's chest aches.

He makes a face that Trent returns and then they laugh softly, and Trent starts eating his breakfast methodically, one thing at a time, and Jordan has always known he does that, but it stills feels like a precious titbit, something small enough to make him smile softly but big enough to do that too. He wraps his hand around Trent's knee under the table, squeezing every now and again as he scrolls through his phone, Trent skimming the paper and normal feels so lovely.

When Trent has cleared his plate and reached the last page of the paper, he slips his hand under the table and squeezes Jordan's palm sat on his knee. Jordan smiles at his phone, close-mouthed and sincere, and turns his hand over, opening it up. He can see Trent smile too, one hand tapping his phone rapidly and the other clasped in Jordan's, just for them.

Jordan has always loved Trent, he supposes. It's the kind of love that doesn't need to be shouted about.


End file.
